[Long time ago]
A long long time ago, in the heart of the medieval world, there stood a kingdom that rose above its neighbors in strength and wealth. Its king was a man of iron will, his name spoken with respect across the known lands. He was not a kind man in the gentle sense, but he was firm, and to his people, that firmness was safety. To his enemies, it was fear. He was the heart of his people and the kingdom and is respected by his people.
In the dim hall of the castle. The smell of wax and parchment filled the room as men argued over borders and supply lines.
They had met before dawn. The war had been gathering for months—raids on the border, merchant caravans stopped, a string of small castles taken by a force no one could yet name. The king called his captains and his barons into the great hall. Torches burned low. A large cloth map lay unfurled on the table, stained by hands and wine.
"Rivers first," the king said, pushing a finger along the map. His voice was slow, the kind that made men listen. "If we hold the fords, we cut their line. If the harvest is late, the men will not follow. We move with the grain, not against it."
Lord Harrow, a broad-shouldered man with a sharp temper, leaned forward. "Your grace, the men on the border will not wait for our caution. They call for action. If we move slow, the enemy will gather strength. I say strike now, hard."
"Strike where?" asked Sir Rowan, who had command of the king's household host. He tapped the map at a ruined tower. "Their men are scattered. We do not know which force we face. If we split too thin, we are eaten."
The king folded his hands. "Every choice costs blood. Lord Harrow is right that delay favors the enemy. Sir Rowan, you're right that haste will break us. We will not gamble on the capital. We will take the best of both."
He outlined a plan that felt like compromise because it was made from the bones of what each man feared to lose. A larger host would march to face the enemy in the south. A garrison would remain, bolstered by merchant levies and the castle guard.
Key roads would be watched. Money would be sent ahead for pay. Supplies would be layered along the march route so the army could move with the harvest. The king spoke of pace, of ration, of keeping the line of horses fed. He marked where the army would camp and how riders would carry messages.
When the hall had thinned and the map was folded back into its chest, a handful stayed behind. The king called his captain closer.
"Rowan," he said, lowering his voice. "Should the worst come, do not let those at home believe us broken. Let a straight face, a steady hand—if I fall, you know what to do."
Sir Rowan looked at him, eyes tired. "We will honour you, sire."
The next months were a study in careful order. Men marched by schedule, fords were held, foragers took only what was needed. The king's plan slowed some panic, and where his soldiers walked, towns breathed easier. Yet war does not bend to paper plans. It bends to weather and to the small, swift choices of men on the ground.
The battle that took him happened on a dull morning under a gray sky. The king's tactic had worked for days: his men forced a crossing, pinned an enemy column, then pressed. In the heat of a choke point, a group broke through the lines and struck where the king rode with the reserve. A horse stumbled. A spear found its mark. The body fell.
By the time the news reached the capital, the king's name had already been hollowed into silence. The first rider arrived at dusk, lame with speed and rain. He came to the gate, coughing, his cloak soaked with the mud of roads.
The king has died.
Even so, the army did not break. His generals, hardened by years under his command, kept pushing forward, unwilling to let his death undo the ground they had taken.
Back in the capital, the air grew heavy with fear. The halls of the castle felt colder. The throne stood empty, its carved wood and gilded edges more a reminder of loss than power. The great men of the kingdom—the barons, the knights, the trusted lords—were far from home, fighting still.
That left the boy.
Aethelar, son of the king, was only nine years old.
The news of the king's death struck the capital like a blow to the chest. Bells rang low and slow, and the castle walls seemed to shudder with the sound. Grief was real enough, but for the men who held the kingdom's levers of power, grief came second to fear.
The king, and most of his strongest barons and knights, were gone with the host. What remained was a hollowed court: old men in robes, careful men with ink-stained fingers, and one boy—nine years old—suddenly heir to everything.
The Chancellor, Lord Edric, was the first to speak in the chamber of state. His thin frame leaned forward over the table as he tapped the parchment that carried the king's death notice.
"There is no time for mourning," he said. "If we show weakness, the lords will smell it like wolves on a wounded deer. The boy must be crowned."
The Steward, Master Halwen, frowned, his heavy hands folded. "He is a child, Chancellor. A child! a child who still stumbles on his own cloak. How will the people believe a boy can hold the throne?"
"They will if God says so," interrupted Archbishop Theobald, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. His robes gleamed with embroidery, his staff of office taller than himself. "The anointing is no mere form. It is the hand of Heaven. Once the boy is crowned, to deny him is to deny God's will. Who among the lords dares carry such sin upon his soul?"
The Chamberlain, Sir Osric, scratched at his gray beard. "Fine words, your grace, but words won't stop a knife in the dark. The boy must be secured. His chamber is too open. Too many doors, too many servants. Move him into the inner keep, behind stone and steel. I'll place a double watch. No one enters without my mark."
The Chancellor nodded. "Do it tonight. Quietly. Let the people wake to see their king already kept safe."
So it was done.
That evening, Aethelar was woken by his nurse, confused and drowsy, his hair tangled against his cheek. A cluster of men entered his chamber—Sir Osric with his keys, a half-dozen guards with torches. The boy sat upright in bed, clutching the blanket.
"What is happening?" he asked, his small voice cutting through the smoky air.
"You are moving, my prince," said Osric, gently but firmly. "The world has changed. You will sleep where the walls are thickest."
"I don't want to," Aethelar said, trembling. "I want my mother."
"She will be with you soon," the nurse promised, though her eyes were unsure, the queen has not been seen since last week. The boy was wrapped in a cloak, hurried along stone corridors where the torches sputtered against the night drafts, until he was placed in the high keep, where the walls were cold and narrow windows looked out over the city. Guards lined the doors. He was, at once, the most important and the loneliest boy alive.
The very next day, the council gathered again. Archbishop Theobald would not delay.
"We crown him now," he said. "Before doubt festers. Before some cousin or baron claims the throne. A king anointed is untouchable."
The Steward hesitated. "But a coronation requires preparation. Processions, banners, gifts—"
"This is not a festival," Theobald snapped. "This is salvation. We have bread enough for the priests, oil for the anointing, and a crown of gold. That is all that is required."
The Chancellor's sharp eyes narrowed. "You mean to bind the throne to the Church with this haste."
"And if I do?" the Archbishop said smoothly. "Would you rather the lords bind it with their swords?"
In the end, none could argue. The coronation was arranged in three days.
The cathedral groaned with the weight of the crowd. Nobles pressed into the front rows, merchants and townsfolk filled the aisles, and outside, peasants thronged the square, listening for the echo of what was happening inside.
Aethelar was led down the nave, his small hands clutching the heavy robes they had wrapped him in. The crown looked enormous, glittering like a weight waiting to fall. His face was pale, but his chin lifted in a way that reminded some of the old king.
The Archbishop raised the vial of oil. His voice carried, not just to those in the cathedral, but to the city itself, for messengers would repeat his words by nightfall.
"With this holy oil, I anoint thee, Aethelar, rightful heir, by the grace of God almighty. No man may stand against thee, for to do so is to deny the hand of Heaven."
The oil touched the boy's brow. The crown was lowered onto his head. The bells pealed, the crowd roared, and the boy was no longer just a child.
He was king.
The council knew exactly what they had done. They had placed a shield of divinity around him. To strike him now was treason and heresy both. But the boy himself, in that heavy moment, only felt the cold press of the crown against his scalp and the eyes of thousands staring at him as though he had suddenly become something more than flesh.
---
[three years ago]
The hall was warm that night. The fire burned high in the hearth, and the smell of smoke and pine filled the air. Aethelar sat on the king—his father's—lap. The hall is warm from the fire, and the carved chair beneath them feels far too big for his small body. His father's chest is hard like stone where Aethelar leans back, but the warmth of him is steady, safe. He smells of leather and faint iron, the way armor leaves its scent long after it's gone.
His father rests a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Aethel."
"Mm? Yes, Father?" The boy tilts his head up, blue eyes wide, already trying to guess what lesson is coming. His father always had lessons tucked in his words.
"Close your eyes."
"Okay?" Aethelar's lashes fall shut. The world goes dark, but he feels the steady rise and fall of his father's chest against his back.
"Now tell me," the king's voice rumbles low, "what is in this room?"
Aethelar frowns in thought. "The fire. I hear it crackling. The big table in front of us—four chairs, no, five."
His father's hand squeezes his shoulder gently. "Good. What else?"
"The banners," Aethelar says quickly, excitement rising in his voice. "Three on the wall. Red, gold, and the blue one with the lion."
"And?"
"The cup. On the table. Silver. It was on your right side before."
The king lets out a quiet chuckle. "Very good. Now—how many guards stand in the hall?"
Aethelar's brow tightens. He listens hard, chewing his lip. Boots scuffing on stone, the faint rattle of chainmail. "Two… no—four. One at each door."
His father explained that kings of their line had always taught their sons this skill. To perceive, to comprehend, and to project—the three pillars of awareness. A man who understood his surroundings could see threats before they struck. He could read people before they spoke. He could know a room better than anyone else in it. This is a skill his father—the king taught him.
Aethelar opens his eyes, blinking at the firelight again. The room looks the same, yet it feels different now, as if it has opened itself to him. He looks up at his father. "Will I be as good as you one day?"
The king's face softens in a way Aethelar rarely sees, lines easing around his eyes. He brushes a thumb against the boy's cheek.
"You already are," he says. "But being good is not enough. You must be steady. You must learn not only to see, but to decide."
---
[Three Years Later]
The great hall smelled of wax and damp stone. Torches hissed against the draft, their light throwing long shadows across the chamber. Aethelar sat on the throne—his father's throne—feet dangling, crown heavy on his brow. The voices of grown men swirled around him like a storm.
"They'll tear each other apart if we delay," the Chancellor said sharply. His long fingers pressed against the table, knuckles white. "The regency must act as one, or every lord in the realm will begin sniffing for weakness."
"And if the regency acts as one," the Steward replied, voice deep and slow, "we risk ruling the boy into the ground. He is not a puppet. The people will see the strings."
"He is a boy!" snapped Lord Harrow, red-faced, slamming a fist on the wood. "Do you expect a child of nine to hold this kingdom? He can't raise an army, can't settle disputes, can't—"
"Enough." The Archbishop's voice cut through the hall, measured, ringing with the weight of the church. "The boy is crowned. Anointed by God Himself. To speak against him now is to speak against Heaven."
Lord Harrow thumped the table with his fist. "Then let him say something. Let him speak, and show the lords he is not just a boy with a crown on his head."
Aethelar sat on the throne, legs too short to touch the ground, the heavy circle of gold pressing against his hair. His hands lay on the carved wood arms, gripping them so tightly his knuckles ached. The men spoke around him as if he were not there.
But he listened.
Aethelar blinked slowly, fixing his eyes on each speaker. His mind turned over their phrases, word for word, as if he could hear them again even after the voices had fallen silent, a natural trait he had. He could recall the exact tilt of the Chancellor's head when he said cannot govern, the twitch of the Steward's lips when he spoke of coin, the gleam in the Archbishop's eye when he invoked God.
He remembered everything.